As Promised, Larry Part II

Dear Joe’s Readers,

I’ve finally written up the story I alluded to in the last post. An experience that happened on day 6 that I thought would cut short my nascent Olympic career if I ever spoke a word of it (I didn’t even tell Erin). The blog has continued, I was not kicked out. And, in retrospect, it wasn’t a big deal. But it sure felt like one in the moment.

You may have surmised by now that there are a lot of rules here. You have to wear your Olympic credential at all times. It says where you can and can’t go. You cannot lose it. There are thousands of workers checking it at every stop, directing nearly every step. There are intense security perimeters around every venue. We go through security multiple times a day to enter and exit any venue. If you have a photo credential like I do, you need to wear an approved photo vest that further dictates where you can and can’t take photos from. You cannot take video at all. NBC (and others) pay $$$$$$ for the rights. Sharing video could get us kicked out. English is (obviously) not the first language here, complicating things further. Covid has added more rules. On the way here we needed a slew of tests, forms, QR codes, doctors notes, approved activity plans and apps installed on a burner iPhone just to enter the country. We take covid tests nearly daily, need to sanitize our hands and get our temperature checked before we enter any venue, and we record our health information everyday on an app. There are designated media busses that take us to and from venues (we can also use local taxis and, now that we’re free, the subway). Inside every venue, there are media work rooms and desks and food and water specifically for journalists. In some places — track and field for example — it’s wide open. You can go nearly anywhere and people are very chill. In others — table tennis, weightlifting — you cannot. You are restricted to small areas to photograph. An array of acronyms rivaling the New Deal — the TMT, the TCT, the MPC, the IOC, the USOPC, more — and small symbols that mean you can access this chunk of pavement but not that one, now govern your every move. 

So, that’s where our story begins.

You may remember eager Olympics Larry on day 6, jumping on a bus and heading to the canoe/kayak slalom course. I went. I saw the event, the venue, the whole situation, and knew we had some more work to do at the office, so I wanted to get back to the MPC. I went back to the front of the venue and ran for the bus that I saw because I didn’t want to miss it. A fatal transportation error here and I could be baking out in the sun at canoe/kayak slalom for god knows how long. I had a bunch of gear, so I took a seat with some extra leg room and settled in. The bus began to fill up, and a tall German man sat next to me. He needed the extra leg room, too, he said. I looked at his credential and it said “doctor.” Interesting. 

We started talking. I learned his name was Tony Kass (you can read all about him on German wikipedia). He’s a team doctor for the German table tennis team. He has a medical practice in Dusseldorf and was a former champion volleyball player. I had many questions. 

What injuries are most common in table tennis? Muscle strains, ankle injuries, tennis elbow (duh). 

How did you get into treating table tennis athletes specifically? His practice is close to their training venue and has been their team doctor for many years.

Where are you going now? To the Olympic village to treat a (Latvian? maybe?) rower (he also serves as a doctor for the federations that don’t bring their own doctors). And then to the table tennis arena. 

Who are the Germans biggest rivals? The Chinese. But in China, the German table tennis player Timo Boll is “the George Clooney of China.” According to Kass, they worship him — even though they often beat him in competition. 

He asked me who I was, who I worked for and I showed him a lot of the pieces we had published. He was particularly interested in the sequence photographs and thought that table tennis could make an interesting visual. He had very nice things to say about the Times. (That is not always the case.)

We exchanged pins — these are like currency at the Olympics and we have a special set of New York Times pins to give out in circumstances like this — as the bus pulled into an unfamiliar lot. 

The German team pin.

The bus stopped, I looked around, and didn’t recognize where we were. Maybe the bus is making two stops, I thought. One here at some medical center where Kass is going to take care of these athletes, and another at the main transportation hub. 

Kass got up, we said goodbye and exchanged information in case I decided to head to table tennis later in the week. I watched everyone else file off the bus and was left alone in the back. 

I pulled out my translation app and asked the driver if he was going to the media center next. He spoke into my phone and the translation came back. 

“Bus garage.”

Hmm. 

I gathered my things and got off the bus. I like walking, even with gear, so I thought I’ll just walk back to the MPC from here. But I looked around and saw a pretty secure perimeter. I was surrounded by tall apartment buildings with flags hanging from their balconies. Wait … am I … ? 

I accidentally boarded an athlete bus, had breached a security perimeter, and entered the Olympic Village. If I had been on a bus full of say, basketball players or swimmers, maybe I would have noticed that I wasn’t on the bus normally full of schlubby journalist-types. But, and no offense to canoe/kayak slalom athletes, I just didn’t really notice.

And, mind you, I do not look like an athlete. I am wearing a New York Times shirt, a tan vest that says PHOTO emblazoned across the back and front, have cameras hanging off my shoulders, and am pulling a roller bag full of camera gear. 

I found the first person in a yellow shirt (the transportation people all wear yellow) to ask where I could catch the media bus. She didn’t speak English, but her supervisor must have overheard me trying to get out of the “super secure” Olympic village and walked over. An extremely surly Australian man with IOC (International Olympic Committee) emblazoned across his credential began to lay into me. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “How did you breach a high security area and force your way onto an athletes bus?” 

I looked at him, astonished, and explained my situation. I was leaving the canoe/kayak slalom venue and got on the bus, I told him. I wasn’t trying to gain access to anywhere. I would love to not be in this position, I told him. Look at me. Really? Do I look like I could have gained access to this bus? 

He kept repeating himself, asking me how I had gained access and forced my way on. And, I kept repeating myself. Dude, I just got on a bus. Let me out. I’ll find my way back to the press center.

“There’s no way out. It’s a secure area.” 

What? Surely there is a way out. You had to get in. Just take me out there. 

“If you try to go out that way, you’ll probably be arrested,” he told me, angrily pointing to a security checkpoint with dozens of Japanese military and police types, where they were checking every car and bus for bombs before allowing them through to where the greatest athletes in all the lands were living, securely. 

Great, I thought. I will now be arrested by the Japanese police and sent home from the Olympics all because I got on the wrong bus at canoe/kayak slalom, an event we weren’t even covering and didn’t care about at all, I just thought it looked cool on TV. I was imagining the phone call someone from the IOC would make to Terri Ann, our administrator who is a saint from heaven, saying that I had breached a secure perimeter and they were taking my credential and sending me to a Japanese prison. All that work to get here. All that time. Damn canoes. Damn bus. 

On the flip side, I have no idea who is or what this man’s job was, but New York Times Photographer Easily Enters Athletes Village Showing Security Weaknesses Across Covid-filled Olympics is I’m sure not a headline he — or anyone above him — wants written. 

Finally, he summons one of his colleagues, a Korean woman who lived in New Jersey, for help. She was cool, saw the terror on my face, and realized I just made a mistake. I explained the situation again, summoning the last bit of charm I had in me. 

“OK, we’ll find a way to get you out of here.” 

They walked me up to the security, bomb-checking army-guy filled gate that I had just come through on the bus and explained the situation to a policeman who didn’t speak much English. He did not understand. All of the army guys stood up to see what was going on. One of them walked out and sidled up next to me. 

Jesus. Here we go. Handcuffs. See you guys later. 

“WHERE ARE YOU FROM!?” he bellowed, in a friendly, I’m-just-trying-to-practice-my-English kind of way. 

Thank the lord, I thought, and breathed a sigh of relief. This man will not arrest me. 

“New York,” I said.

“Is it hotter here or there?” he asked.

“It’s hotter here,” I replied, with a chuckle. 

He then asked the Australian man where he was from and the Korean woman where she was from. After a bit of back and forth through a tamagotchi like translation device, he seemed to understand. 

“Out,” they said. “Just take him outside the gate.”

“Ok,” the Japanese army guy said. 

“Good luck,” the Korean lady said.

He escorted me 10 feet to the side and opened a small door in the fence.

I thanked him in Japanese profusely and repeatedly.

“Bye!” he said. 

And I was free. 

I speed walked a few blocks to get out of sight of the village, the security, anything, and then began to collect myself. 

What just happened? Is this just a ridiculous you-got-on-a-wrong-bus and-now-have-a-good-story-to-tell kind of story? Or is this a you-just-breached what-was-supposed-to-be-the-most-secure-Olympic-perimieter-of-the atheltes-village story and when you get back to the press center the surly Australian man will have called his boss who called his boss who called his boss who is the president of the IOC who called Terri Ann, cancelled your credential, and you’ll be on the first flight back to New York kind of story? Or, no, but … really, how did they let a NEW YORK TIMES JOURNALIST on an athletes bus that goes to the OLYMPIC VILLAGE? Damn security. Yeah right. This wasn’t my fault. This was their fault. LOL

I waffled between these various extremes. 

It was well over 90 degrees. I was sweating my ass off. I had gear. It was an hour walk back to the press center. I’ll just take it easy and walk back and wind down. I took this photo while crossing an insanely huge bridge —

For the next hour, I continued to waffle, eventually deciding that if no one said anything to me, I would not speak of this until I was sure I wasn’t getting kicked out. 

When I finally got close to the MPC, I realized my credential might not work. If it was cancelled, I would be denied entry at security and have to explain myself somehow. I scanned my credential, which scans both your pass and a camera does some sort of face recognition thing. (Secure, I told you.) Blue means good, red means bad. 

Blue. Whew. 

I got back into the office, everything seemed fine, and I said nothing to anyone. But, lurking in the back of my mind, I was certain the other shoe was about to drop. Every time the phone rang or someone who I didn’t recognize popped into the office, I thought, that’s it. Pack your bags. Someone from the IOC called and wants you out of here. 

As the night went on, this feeling dissipated a bit. I got back to the hotel and went to sleep. I needed to be up early to meet Joe at the Aquatic Center the next morning. 

Fast forward to the next morning — the bus that is supposed to take us to the media transport center where we catch all the other busses is running late, like really late. The sports editor, Randy Archibold, and our tech office manager, Mike Wendelken, and I are waiting. Mike tries to call me a cab. No cabs. We can’t take the train because we haven’t been in Japan for 14 days yet. Finally the bus comes, nearly an hour after it was scheduled. Then, traffic. The triathlon was that morning and shut down many of the streets surrounding the media transport place, so we’re crawling. I am so late. I text Joe that I’m so sorry, traffic is a mess, and I am going to proceed on foot. 

Damn bus.

(When we first landed, Joe said the only two things you really want out of an Olympics are good wifi and good transportation. Tokyo only had one of those things.)

I finally got out at the media transport mall, and wasn’t taking a chance getting stuck in traffic on another bus to the pool. So I walked with my gear, in flops, in the 90+ degree heat, 45 minutes (partly through a lovely park) to make it to the aquatic center. 

As I approached, I saw the security checkpoint we have to go through and breathed a sigh of relief. I was going to make it in time for the first race. But then my mind raced back to my credential. What if it shows up red? I’m sure they called overnight and cancelled all my access. 

I approach the security desk, do the usual steps, greet everyone in Japanese, and scan my credential. 

Red. 

Damn.

I take off my sunglasses and try the face scanner again.

Red. 

Damn.

I take off my hat and try the scanner again. 

Blue. 

YES. I am in. But the first sign I see is Tatsumi Water Polo Centre. 

Damn! After all that, did I really come to the wrong aquatic center?

No, it turns out, the pool is about a half mile more around the corner. Thank god. My nerves were shot.

I make it to the pool, climb the 6 or 8 or a thousand flights of stairs to get to our photo spot and see Joe. I am dripping with sweat. It is pouring off me. I am a pool. 

“You made it just in time for the first race,” he says. 

“Great.” I say, and start to set up my gear. 

Katie Ledecky swam a bit later and we were there to shoot her. I calmed down, relieved I wasn’t going to get kicked out, settled into our photo spot, and got ready to shoot the Ledecky race. Then, my phone buzzed. It was a text from our admin, Terri Ann. Somehow, she said, I had been removed from the OCHA system — the health tracking system that we have been required to use to note our temperature, if we have any covid symptoms, etc. It was weird, she said. And she asked if I had been doing my daily check ins and tests. 

Here we go again. 

I had been filling out the app, and in fact, had done one just that morning that seemed to register in the system fine. Ledecky was on the blocks about to dive. I had to shoot and deal with this when she was done. 

By that time, the Japanese guards would have surrounded me and escorted me out, mid-Ledecky race.

We shot Ledecky, and I texted Terri Ann a picture of the app showing all of my screenings. Weird, she said. 

As it turns out, many of us were having problems with the app, everything was fine, and she sent a similar text, and later an email, to our entire Olympics crew. 

Whew. Spared again. 

As the day wore on, I shot diving, published something on Ledecky, had lunch, and watched the sky light up in a gorgeous sunset over Tokyo, near the bridge I trudged over the day prior.

I was at the Olympics. And I was here to stay. 

A week or more later, Joe and I were groggy, barely awake, on a bus (the right one) back to the media transport mall. He pointed out the window and said, “That looks like the Olympic village over there.”

“Joe,” I said. “I have a story to tell you.”